Cleopatra’s dreamin’ of a face made of sand.
She smiles as it tells her its name.
She picks it up and lets it slip through her hands.
She says its all part of the game.
There’s shadows at the window, there’s whispers at the door,
There’s a sound that she doesn’t quite hear.
She tries to ignore it, says its all such a bore
And if she woke now it would all be too clear.

Argument is pointless, and reason’s just as bad.
Intuition offers nothing at all.
Cleopatra’s croonin’ to a face made of stars.
She’s dreaming it will come to her call.

She writes a Name upon the hovering sky.
She whispers a Word to the night.
But the Name is illusion and the Word is a lie,
And the dreaming has stolen her Sight.

Cleopatra’s happy with whatever remains,
She’s satisfied to dream she’s awake.
The angles collide in a confusion of form,
But she’s learned enough to give when it takes.